Destiny
by glitterburn
Summary: John/Balthazar. The cards don't lie.


**Destiny**

The bundle was wrapped in silk. How old it was, John couldn't tell. It smelled of incense and lavender, two scents that he didn't naturally associate with one another. The cloth, when he touched it, felt dry and crisp. He was not enough of an expert to know if this indicated extreme age or whether it was a peculiarity of a certain type of silk.

Chas was certain that it was really old. Eighty years at least. Perhaps, Chas had said excitedly, his eyes shining, perhaps the deck belonged to Aleister Crowley or one of his circle – now wouldn't that be something!

John wasn't sure that the cards were that old, or had that illustrious – or nefarious – a history. Somehow he had the thought that if these cards had been owned by Crowley, he'd know about it.

Perhaps he should open the deck and find out. Practitioners of the Tarot tended to protect their cards, placing them in velvet pouches or padded wooden boxes, or wrapping them in silk. All done to conserve their power, to prevent distortion from external energies.

Distortion. John knew all about that. He couldn't remember a single day when he hadn't been fighting off external forces. Sometimes he wished he could be wrapped in silk and held safe and protected; cherished, even, like these cards. But real life wasn't like that.

So he eyed the bundle warily and uncharitably. Tarot cards. What the hell was he supposed to do with them? And why the fuck did Chas think he needed them? Like he hadn't got enough mystical shit already. He only wanted that kind of stuff if it helped with the job. He sure as hell didn't want to dabble with it as an extra-curricular activity.

John poked at the silk with his forefinger. The bundle slid across the polished surface of his desk with a tiny whisper. He snorted. It reminded him absurdly of the movement of the pointers on ouija boards.

When he took his finger away, the cards continued to travel across the desk.

He watched them go. Ordinarily he'd have been surprised, but not now, not today. Because now he could smell something else, beyond incense and lavender, and that something was a scent – an _odour_ – that came straight from Hell.

Sulphur.

He looked up as Balthazar appeared before him on the opposite side of the desk. The demon deftly caught the silk-covered Tarot cards before they slid off onto the floor, weighing them briefly in one hand before he dropped them back in the centre of the table.

"Playing at fortune-telling, are we?" Balthazar's voice, as deep and sticky-luscious as honey, sounded amused.

"I'm not playing," John said. "I don't need to know my future."

"Then where did these come from?"

John shrugged and sat back, disinterested. He felt towards the pack of cigarettes he'd tossed onto the desk earlier.

"Your little friend gave them to you," Balthazar said, as if with a sudden flash of insight. The effect was ruined when he asked, "Didn't he?"

"Yeah," John mumbled around his cigarette. He flipped open the lighter and ignited the flame, watching it for a moment before he bent his head to place the tip of the cigarette into that brief flicker of fire.

He took a long, deep drag and then blew smoke across at Balthazar. "Yeah," he said again. "Chas gave them to me. He found them someplace; thought I'd like them."

"An exorcist using Tarot cards," Balthazar said, amused.

"Yeah, I thought it was pretty damn hilarious, too."

John flicked ash into the ashtray he'd borrowed from the bowling alley downstairs. Clamping the cigarette between his lips, he leaned forwards to unwrap the cards from the silk scarf that covered them. The cloth slithered to the floor as he pushed it to one side, and then he turned over the top card. It was The Hanged Man, the image stark and challenging.

John snorted and shoved the card back into the deck. "I mean," he continued, "they could at least have told me that you were going to turn up and annoy me."

"They don't work like that," Balthazar said. He tilted his head, affecting a hurt expression. "And I would never annoy you, John. It's hardly my fault you took exception to me. After all we've been through together. You only hate me because you care what I think about you."

"Wrong," John said. "I despise you."

Balthazar sighed. "You always have to be so dramatic, don't you?"

"People kind of expect exorcists to be showman. A little bit of holy water here, a bit of projectile vomiting there. Blood dripping from the ceiling. Fireballs exploding through the wall. That sort of thing. So, yeah. Dramatic. I guess I am."

"That wasn't what I meant."

"I know." John took another drag on the cigarette and fixed Balthazar with a look that was nothing short of a glare. "What do you want, demon?"

Balthazar perched on the opposite side of the table and reached for the Tarot cards. "I want to read your future."

"You believe that? It's bullshit. Too many people believe in that crap."

"Because it works," Balthazar said, giving him a sharp look. "You know as well as I do that the forces that govern us are real. Those same forces channel power through tools of divination."

"Yeah. That's why I say it's crap," John said with a sneer. "I've been done over too many times by your lot and by Him Upstairs to start believing what some pretty pictures on pieces of card have to say about my life. Besides, the Church doesn't approve of Tarot cards. They say it's the Devil's work."

"The Tarot shows possibilities," Balthazar said. "We work with certainties – as do those Upstairs. Possibility only exists in this plane, the realm of ordinary mortals… and a few extraordinary ones."

"You flatter me."

"I was referring to myself. After all, I am only half-demon."

John scowled and stubbed out his cigarette. "Then why don't you do your own reading for your human side – what's left of it…"

"Bad form to do that. Demons don't need to know their future. Lucifer takes care of it all for us. I told you, John: we deal in certainties. You, poor human… well."

"What? You think I need all the help I can get, is that right?"

It was Balthazar's turn to shrug. "I'm just saying."

"Let's see, then." John pointed his finger at the expanse of desk between them. "Do your damn fortune-telling, since you're so much of an expert. I want to see these 'possibilities' for myself."

Balthazar allowed himself a small smile as he bent his head over the deck of cards. It would be easy to manipulate them, to ensure a certain outcome, but since John was not inclined to believe the results in any case, he saw little point in wasting his energy. Instead, Balthazar decided to leave the reading up to Fate.

He shuffled the cards expertly, despite their clumsy size. They were warm in his hands, imbued with the energy of their previous owner. It was almost addictive, this gathering of strength from the cards, and he had to remind himself to stop.

"Now you shuffle them," he said, holding out the deck.

John had already lit another cigarette. He placed it on the side of the ashtray as he took the cards and split the deck before he began shuffling them. His expression was one of boredom, although Balthazar was certain he could sense a kind of curiosity held in check.

He knew John – really _knew_ him. And John was nothing if not a curious bastard. That's what got him into so much trouble…

The cards were pushed across the desk towards him. Balthazar picked them up, turned them around, and counted out eight. He put the rest of the deck aside, and laid out the eight cards after the manner of a simplified Celtic Cross spread.

John watched him. "Done this before, have you?"

"Yes."

"Good way to trap people, I guess. Desperate people who'll believe anything, as long as it gives them hope." John's voice was rough from both the cigarette smoke and emotion. "And then you rob them of that hope."

Balthazar ignored him. He turned over the first card and tapped the image upon it to call John's attention. "Look," he said. "This is you."

John took up his cigarette. "The Page of Wands. Nice."

"The Page of Wands, reversed," Balthazar corrected. "An indecisive personality. Feeling frustrated with life, are we, Johnny-boy?"

A scowl. "Don't call me that."

"It's not me, it's the cards." Balthazar held up his hands. "But you are indecisive. I feel you've reached a crossroads in your life…"

John stared at him with disgust. "You don't feel anything, demon. And I can be decisive when I need to be." He took a long pull on the cigarette and puffed out a stream of smoke. "You know how fucking decisive I can be."

Balthazar met his gaze calmly. "Yes," he said. "I do." He turned over the next card and explained, "This is the immediate influence upon you… the Five of Swords. Adversaries and defeat. Look at the lovely picture. It could be us, no?"

His finger stroked the image upon the card. It showed a man slumped helpless on the ground, surrounded by menacing shadows. One sinister figure loomed forwards, demonic in its bearing as it salivated over the hapless victim.

"You're my immediate influence. That's just great," John muttered. He flicked ash onto the desk, deliberately letting it spark over the cards and the back of Balthazar's hand.

The demon didn't bother to brush away the fiery glints of ash. Instead he let them seep into his skin, merging with the hellfire that burned within him. He'd allowed John to glimpse that fire once, and it had consumed them both.

He sighed and turned over the topmost card. "The background to your current state of mind," he said. "The Five of Cups. Regret; incomplete union; unrewarding friendships. People have taken advantage of you, John."

"Don't I know it." John's voice was cynical rather than bitter.

"Next – the past. Oh, looky here…" Balthazar almost laughed as he revealed the card, one considered by many to be the most frightening of the whole deck. "The Tower: destruction, violent change – oh, what could that be?"

He saw John's expression tighten, his face paling. Balthazar knew what this card represented: John's suicide, so many years ago. And the cause of that suicide was Balthazar himself.

It wasn't enough that the poor kid had seen demons everywhere. He'd seen angels, too, of course; but they tended to be reticent around humans. Half-breeds were something else entirely; and John's youthful confusion about the angels and demons was too tempting for a half-breed to resist.

Balthazar was able to mask his demonic side long enough for John to trust him, to love him… to fall in love with him. It was so much more delicious when a victim went willingly to the slaughter, and Balthazar had had no regrets when he finally let John see what lay beneath his human skin.

He had been surprised by the reaction. Far from displaying fear and rage, John had welcomed him into his bed with more passion than before. It was as if he wanted to be utterly destroyed by it.

Afterwards, Balthazar had asked why; and John had answered, "Because now I know you're one of them. I always knew one of them would take me to Hell. I was afraid. I thought it would hurt. And so I thought… if I reached oblivion in your arms, then I would not be scared, and it would not matter any more."

His voice had been dead even as he spoke those words. His eyes, when he turned to look at Balthazar, were as lifeless as two chips of obsidian, flat and polished, reflecting back the fire that still burned through Balthazar.

And John had said, "But you didn't kill me."

"No."

"I truly believed that you would." There had been no admonition, no plea. "I believed in you."

Later, John had got into a hot bath and slit his wrists. It wasn't just because he could see demons that drove him to it. He wanted to do it himself, because he could no longer trust Balthazar to take him across the threshold and into Hell; and that betrayal was worse than being able to see demons.

John's suicide had shaken Balthazar. He should have been pleased: a suicide went straight to Hell, after all – but instead all he could feel was regret.

Now Balthazar cleared his throat and turned to the next card. "The future," he said. "The Two of Cups. Oh, John – this is the card of love, of romance and…"

"Shut it." John's voice was harsh now. "I don't believe in love."

"Like you don't believe in Tarot cards?"

"You dealt them wrong." John grabbed another cigarette from the packet and lit it straight from the butt of the second. "That card should be in the past. Dead and buried, like I should be."

"But you still live," Balthazar whispered. "You could love again."

John stared hard at the demon. "Not you. Anybody but you."

"Chas?" Balthazar wondered, tilting his head.

"He's just a kid."

"So were you, when we first met."

John blew smoke at him. "I'm not a demon."

"Not all demons work for Lucifer," Balthazar said mildly, but he let it go and flipped over the sixth card. "This is how you should act," he said. "Seven of Wands. You will overcome any obstacles in your way. Rise to a challenge. Not bad for someone who started out so miserable and self-serving. I do believe you will make something of yourself."

"That's why I was brought back, wasn't it?" John's tone was mocking. "To redeem myself. What the hell. My redemption is my revenge. Every demon I kill, I imagine it's you."

"And yet here I am in front of you, and yet you don't kill me," Balthazar said dryly. "That doesn't make a great deal of sense to me."

John gave him a level look. "That's because you're not fully human."

"Well, now." Balthazar turned the seventh card. "One more to go. This is your environment and the people around you. The Eight of Coins, which underlines the last card. Hard work and effort brings results. You'll be learning something soon – or you'll be taught it. So when will the exorcist allow himself to be led – and by whom?"

"Just get on with it," John snapped. "The last card – what is it?"

Balthazar hesitated before he turned it over. "The final outcome," he said softly, and then he lifted the card and placed it face up. "The Devil."

John stared at it, and then he started to laugh.

"Well," said Balthazar, not entirely sure that he could feel pleased with himself for that reading, "what do you think of that, then?"

John sucked on his cigarette and considered. "I think next time I want my fortune told, I won't ask a goddamn demon to do it."

Balthazar sighed. "I told you: it's all about possibilities. Not about the absolute truth. My being a demon has no effect on the reading."

"Yeah. Right."

"Your future lies in Hell."

"My future lies in a cancer ward," John corrected. He stubbed out his cigarette with a decisive gesture. "I don't need Tarot cards to tell me that."

Balthazar shook his head, almost regretful. "I'm telling you, John: your future lies in Hell."

"That's a possibility."

"No," Balthazar said: "that's a certainty."

He winked out of the apartment like a flame going out. The stink of sulphur grew stronger in the few moments after the demon's departure, and then it drifted away to fade into the air.

John picked up the final card and looked at it again. The Devil, represented as a red-skinned, black-haired man with goatish legs and an erect phallus. On either side of him stood two smaller figures, both naked: a man and a woman, pale and insipid. They were chained around the neck, and the Devil held their leashes.

"My destiny, huh?" John muttered. He took out his lighter again and clicked the flame into life, and then held it to the rounded corner of the card. It went brown and then black, curling upwards as the flame caught. It spread rapidly across the face of the card, the image darkening under its advance.

John held it until the flame got too hot against his hand, and then he dropped it into his ashtray. He watched it burn, and wondered vaguely if he'd committed an act of hubris.

To be absolutely sure, he said out loud, "Fuck destiny."

**end**

**Originally published in **_**Horizontal Mosaic**_** 10 (Blackfly Press)**


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